The Typewriter
Paper piled upon paper
Paper piled upon paper
Word stacked upon word
Ink spills from the machine
Ink bleeds from my fingers
It is bulky and heavy
but beautiful all the same
It creates a world that lives
inside my brain
I press down on a key
performing magic in the process
The letters seem to float in
mid-air
bound
to a machine
like the workers in factories
overseas
wanting to escape a life
that doesn't allow them to live
Yet the letters don't mind
just as long as
they stay clean
Because clean means used
and used means loved
and loved is all
anyone can ask for
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